


Uncommon Cure for the Common Cold

by formalizing



Series: Cannibalism Aside (Samn) [10]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Affection, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Because You Can Only Google So Much Weird Shit Before You Start to Worry About Yourself, Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Culinary Inaccuracies, Dark Dean Winchester, Dark Sam Winchester, Domestic Fluff, Food as a Metaphor for Love, Food is People, Hurt/Comfort, I'm Sorry, M/M, Medical Inaccuracies, Murder, Murder and Cannibalism Treated Very Casually, Oral Sex, Prostitution, Protective Sam, Sibling Incest, Sick Dean, Total Disregard for Human Life, Yes Really, butchery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:54:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,218
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5546084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean is sick. Sam takes care of him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Uncommon Cure for the Common Cold

**Author's Note:**

> Don't ask me how it got so schmoopy, because I don't know.
> 
> You know what, just don't question me about this at all, actually. It's probably best not to analyze it too closely.
> 
> (There is unspecified age underage in the comments section. Easily avoidable, but just so you know.)

Sam knows Dean is well and truly sick when he doesn’t so much as twitch in his sleep as Sam pulls on his coat and slips out of the house.

He’s been mildly feverish and coughing up green and yellow shit for days, getting steadily more congested for nearly a week. His normally wildly sparkling eyes look dull and cloudy and tired. Sam had _tried_ to get him to rest like he needed, but Dean had, of course, insisted he was fine. He carried on with the hunt—a werewolf they’d put down messy just a couple nights before—wearing himself down to exhaustion. And when their money ran out a few days after they arrived, leaving them tapped out until they get to the next drop box where a credit card will hopefully be waiting for them, Dean didn’t hesitate to head out in the cold to turn a few tricks in his thin, worn jeans and a jacket not made for the Midwest in late fall over a tight t-shirt. His only concession to the cold and Sam’s nagging had been a pair of gloves with so many holes in them he might as well not even have bothered.

But now Dean’s sick, and helpless to protest that Sam is ‘babying’ him, that he’s the older brother and is _fine_. So even if they don’t have so much as a lonely can of chicken soup in the cupboards, Sam is going to provide for him for a change.

\--

Sam feels a brief twinge of guilt as the woman thrashes, straining against the zip ties and ropes as she tries to bring her bound hands to her neck to cover the deep gouge Sam’s just made there.

Not guilt for her, of course. He watches dispassionately as her skin splits more widely around the torrent of blood that’s pouring out. It slicks down her chin and face towards the tarp covering the floor of the abandoned house that the werewolf they’d killed had been using to turn in each month.

No, he feels guilty to be doing this without Dean, who would have enjoyed her growing panic as she woke up naked and hung by her feet from the exposed beams, the incredulous wideness of her eyes when she saw the blade; he would have liked the way the dripping ends of her long hair are brushing along the tarp as she swings, light like an artist’s brush over canvas.

Her mouth works silently once or twice, opening and closing reflexively like a goldfish as she stares at him with her features frozen in shock. The only noise in the room is the creaking of the beam under her weight and the wet, gurgling sounds her lungs are making as, still futilely struggling for life, they take desperate, gasping breaths through her severed windpipe. It’s only maybe half a minute before the lack of oxygen to the brain makes her eyes go unfocused and hazy as she loses consciousness. Her body keeps twitching for at least a minute longer than that, but eventually she falls still, still twisting in little circles where she’s hung.

It’s probably the easiest death Sam’s ever given anyone, and he runs a regretful hand over the places he would’ve sliced until he hit bone, the joints he would have bent until something snapped. But everything about this kill is perfunctory and purposeful, so he leaves the carcass to drain while he unpacks his tools from the car, then sets to work taking it down to parts.

The head, thighs, and assorted entrails all go in one big, black trash bag off to the side, followed by the hollowed-out torso and arms in another. He hates the waste, but they’ll be moving on within a couple days, once Dean’s feeling better, and there’s no guarantee they’ll have reliable refrigeration wherever they wind up next. So, most of the meat will have to go in the lake. The bags are weighted to ensure they’ll sink properly once he gets them in the water, and the temperature should be dipping low enough that it will ice up soon and leave no risk of them being found before Sam and Dean are barely a memory in the minds of people here.

He frowns at the mangled remains of the liver as he dumps it in one of the bags. His butchery is rough with impatience, rushing to try and get back before Dean wakes up. So, despite originally wanting the nutrient-rich liver, he has to settle for the kidneys. He slides them into a Ziploc bag that he presses the air out of before sealing up, storing them in the little cooler filled with ice he’d brought with him. He knows Dean isn’t the biggest fan of offal, but maybe some deviled kidneys with a good dose of cayenne will help clear his sinuses.

All that’s left now is to collect some soup bones and clean up. He glances at his watch with a sigh before grabbing the bone saw and setting to work on the shanks. He hopes Dean is still asleep by the time he gets home.

\--

Dean has sprawled out far enough that he’s halfway to falling off the couch when Sam walks in the door. He’s on his stomach with one of each his arms and legs hanging off the side to the floor. The blanket that’d been wrapped firmly around him is kicked down past his hips in a tangled mess and, despite the sweat sticking his shirt to his back, he’s shivering.

Sam cracks open the bottle of Nyquil he stole from the drugstore and pours some into the little plastic cup that comes with it. He sets it aside to detangle the blanket around Dean’s legs, who wakes as Sam’s rearranging his limbs so that he’s on his side and no longer at risk of falling.

He looks confused for a second as he looks at Sam’s face, cheeks still pink with cold, mumbles, _Where’ve y’been?_

 _Picking up something for dinner_ , Sam says, smiling as Dean hums and leans into the cool touch of Sam’s hand on his cheek.

Sam holds out the cup of bright green syrup, gives Dean a no-nonsense stare with a raised eyebrow until he wrinkles his nose and takes it from him. He throws it back like it’s a shot of whiskey, cringes at the taste, and carelessly tosses the cup in the general direction of the coffee table in front of him. He turns to press a lazy kiss to Sam’s palm in thanks. Then he pauses and licks a thick stripe up the middle of it, gives Sam a sleepily accusatory look.

 _Without me?_ he says with a pout that is made more believably pathetic by his red nose and watery eyes. _Way to kick me when I’m down._

Sam chuckles and runs a hand through Dean’s sweat-dampened hair.

 _Go back to sleep and I’ll tell you all about it later_ , he says, pulling the blanket back up to Dean’s shoulders. Dean nods, has already closed his eyes again. There’s a bit more color in his cheeks then there was that morning, but he still looks worse for wear. _I’ll wake you when soup’s on._

Dean is sleeping by the time Sam strips off his coat, grabs the cooler, and heads to the kitchen.

There’s a couple carrots, a forgotten half an onion, and some wilted celery in the crisper of the fridge that he rough chops and roasts alongside bones that he strips of their meat. The bones are split lengthwise, so it’s easy to scrape out the buttery marrow once they’re out of the oven. Sam sets it aside to spread on toast as an accompaniment.

Once he’s got the roasted bones, vegetables, and raw meat in the pot, he seasons the lot with salt and pepper. There’s no hope for fresh herbs since he doesn’t want to leave Dean alone again, but there’s a bit of rosemary and a bay leaf left in their store of dried spices, so he adds those, too.

He lets it simmer long enough to reduce and take on the rich color and flavor that speaks of hours on the stove. He kills time by starting a loaf of bread, then cleaning and slicing the kidneys, setting them to soak in a covered dish of salted water in the fridge until breakfast the next day.

By the time he’s slicing into the cooled bread a few hours later, Dean is up and moving, and soon after he hears the shower running. A good sign, if he’s able to move beyond the nest of the blanket and the couch.

He’s lightly toasted the bread and is thinking of ladling the broth into bowls when Dean pads into the kitchen in just his underwear, scrubbing half-heartedly at his damp hair with the towel around his neck.

 _Smells good_ , he says, coming up behind Sam and resting his warm hands on Sam’s hips under the pyjama pants Sam had changed into earlier. Sam snorts.

 _Like you can smell anything right now_ , he says.

Dean buries his nose in the hair at the nape of Sam’s neck and inhales as deeply as he can with his still-stuffy nose.

 _Can if I get real close_ , he says with a grin Sam can hear in his voice, sliding the palm of one hand over the crest of Sam’s hip and tracing down the deep ‘V’ of the muscles leading to his cock.

 _Idiot_ , Sam says with a fond shake of his head and a smile. _You could hardly stand this morning, but you think I’m gonna let you set your recovery back to fuck me?_

Dean groans, lolling his head to rest on Sam’s shoulder.

 _C’mon, Sammy_ , he whines, voice all the more plaintive with the nasal quality to it. He rolls his hips up so that Sam can feel the line of his already half-hard cock. _It’s been days._

_Two, Dean. Two days._

Dean isn’t paying much attention, rubbing himself to full hardness against Sam’s ass as he holds him in place with a hand laid flat and low on Sam’s stomach.

 _And you say **I’m** a slut_ , Sam says with a sigh that sounds vaguely put-upon for Dean’s benefit.

He glances down at the contents of the pot as he arches his spine to press his ass back more firmly for Dean to rut against, feels the sting of Dean’s teeth against his shoulder in response. He figures there’s no harm in letting it simmer a bit longer, so he drags Dean back to the couch by the hand and sits him down on it.

Dean looks ready to pout again, like he thinks Sam might actually deny him something, but his face brightens  
considerably when Sam drops to his knees between his spread legs.

Dean starts out strong, hands in Sam’s hair as he thrusts his hips up to bury himself more deeply between Sam’s lips. But eventually his hands are just resting limply in Sam’s hair and his hips are barely even twitching where Sam has them pinned against the couch. He takes a lot longer to come than usual, but Sam doesn’t mind. He sucks him sloppy and slow until his jaw aches, takes him in his throat and swallows around him until he finally comes with a drawn-out moan of Sam’s name, going boneless under Sam’s hands.

To his credit, Dean tries to reach out with clumsy hands to return the favor, loose-limbed and fairly useless after. But Sam just grins and gets no resistance from Dean when he settles him back down on the couch.

 _That one was just for you_ , he says, presses a quick kiss to Dean’s slightly parted lips, watching in amusement as his lips pucker in belated response after Sam’s already moved away.

By the time Sam brings the food out, Dean is nearly asleep again, his head resting on the back of the couch. He wakes up long enough to sip about half the broth and eat most of a slice of toast with probably more than his fair share of the marrow spread on it, making quiet sounds of appreciation all the while. Sam takes the bowl away when Dean starts repeatedly drifting off between mouthfuls, waking with a wide-eyed start each time, jostling the bowl in a way that threatens an imminent spill.

Sam pulls Dean down to lay across the sofa with his head pillowed on Sam’s thigh and leans over him to grab the blanket.

 _S’nice_ , Dean mumbles once Sam has the blanket tucked up around him again. His cheek rubs against the soft flannel of Sam’s pyjamas as he lets out a jaw-cracking yawn. _Promised me a story_ , he reminds as he settles one hand on Sam’s bare foot where it’s tucked under the knee of the leg Dean is resting on.

Sam slowly strokes his fingers through his brother’s hair and starts to talk. He tells him all about the way he’d tied her, and how her begging led to frantic screaming before his knife put a stop it. Dean is asleep with a smile on his face before Sam even gets to the part where the blood stained her blonde hair.


End file.
